


Sideways once again

by ttired



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: M/M, angst kind of, but more of a visceral bone-deep melancholy because I'm terminally incapable of writing happy things, but not for a minute, did china fuck anyone else completely because, so eventually like probably some D/s elements, sorry these tags got extra weird, this is my own fault for opening my mouth up about max needing more self control, ugh I hate this and myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 14:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttired/pseuds/ttired
Summary: Lewis catches him after the podium, after the interviews, just as he's being dragged off by the mechanics who are insisting on helping him to a state of extreme inebriation by getting his night started off right, and it's a quick tap to his shoulder that has Dan turning, and -- Dan has a feeling he knows what this going to be about."You're not in the least bit concerned?" Lewis says, shifting tracks as he quickly realizes he's gaining no traction with Dan."About what, him hitting me?" Dan shrugs. "Been there, done that, have the t-shirt. Either he will or he won't, and if he stupidly decides to at some point, I'll give him the arse-chewing for it then.""No -- not," Lewis sighs, scrunches impossibly closer, eyeing the rest of the Red Bull crew over Dan's shoulder warily. "I mean what the recklessness implies about his current mental state, aren't you concerned about him -- as a friend?"---Max's recklessness is the subject of concern -- Dan just can't work out why it should be his problem, specifically.





	Sideways once again

**Author's Note:**

> **ETA:** I'm not? Exactly sure? why I posted this anonymously to begin with, but I am working on the next chapter so might as well add this to my dash.
> 
> This is was writen while I was thoroughly over-caffeinated and decidedly hyper-emotional, and it's just plain sad. It's also def headed in a D/s, emotional co-dependence direction, so if that ain't ya jam, best to disembark this train while you still can.
> 
> Content notes if there's finally something to warn about will be posted at the end.
> 
> Title from "Malt Liquor" by Lewis Del Mar

Dan knows racing can be like this -- can feel like tumbling through a series of open doors in a maze, each one less likely to be open than the last, and how stupefying it can be, how utterly flabbergasting it actually is when each one after the other just falls open under your hands. You keep waiting for the sudden stop of something immovable, for the full-tilt rush to stop hurting forwards, until suddenly you're a quarter lap past the checkered flag and pit wall is screaming in your ear and you can barely breathe from the sheer impossibility of the moment.

It's been a good while since racing has been like this for Dan, but Dan knows, still remembers what this feels like in echos even as he's in-fact living it. It doesn't make anything easier, though. Not the way his head keeps feeling like it might actually float away from his body, or the fact that he's damn sure his heart rate has yet to drop under 120. Nor the way every stupid and laddish urge to rattle things and shout to the ceilings is fighting to get out of his skin and bones to the point Dan's convinced he might actually be vibrating. From the clear-writ dejection in Valtteri's body language and general muleishness that tends to follow Kimi around when he does anything short of beat someone to the win, Dan knows he's -- well. He's not being kind about the win, but. But.

Dan catches himself before he actually starts giggling outloud, but only just.

-

Lewis catches him after the podium, after the interviews, just as he's being dragged off by the mechanics who are insisting on helping him to a state of extreme inebriation by getting his night started off right, and it's a quick tap to his shoulder that has Dan turning, and -- Dan has a feeling he knows what this going to be about.

He's already putting a hand up, the "not tonight Lewis, really" sitting on his tongue as Lewis rolls his eyes and hunches down and into Dan's personal space as the Brit's wont to do when slagging off about other drivers so fresh after controversy, ignoring the mild rejection of Dan's proffered hand to say:

"You've got to talk to him, honestly this shitty driving can't keep going on forever --"

"Mate, not my job," Dan says mildly.

"He's your teammate!" Lewis hisses.

"Yeah, exactly, which makes his driving -- shitty or otherwise -- like," Dan says, drawing the last out in an exaggeration of all the patience for this he absolutely doesn't have right now, definitely not on the night of this season's maiden win. "Not my responsibility."

"You're not in the least bit concerned?" Lewis says, shifting tracks as he quickly realizes he's gaining no traction with Dan.

"About what, him hitting me?" Dan shrugs. "Been there, done that, have the t-shirt. Either he will or he won't, and if he stupidly decides to at some point, I'll give him the arse-chewing for it then."

"No -- not," Lewis sighs, scrunches impossibly closer, eyeing the rest of the Red Bull crew over Dan's shoulder warily. "I mean what the recklessness implies about his current mental state, aren't you concerned about him -- as a friend?"

"Lewis," Dan grins. "I'm going to leave and go get significantly drunker now, with or without your permission."

"I'm telling you it's a bloody pattern of behavior," Lewis calls after Dan, chewing at his nails, but allowing him to escape with wave.

Whatever, Dan thinks. Neither man's bad season-start is enough to drag him down after today -- he's the kind of high normally reserved for championship wins and surviving incredibly stupid stunts; he blew out his back tire once running a two-stroke Huskie over wet mud next to a 600 meter drop and saved the bike and his life and couldn't stop laughing inexplicably for a full two days afterwards. He slips an arm around Mark, one of the tire-gun lads, joining in the middle of the shouted chorus of the men and women in Red Bull gear outside the Energy Station in the dying light of the Shanghai evening:

"Started from the bottom now my whole team fucking here --"

It's good to be alive, Dan thinks furiously, singing the Drake lyrics louder.

-

The Langham is an extremely fancy hotel, to a point that Dan almost feels bad he apparently threw up into whatever $400 dollar vase holding a potted rock is perched precariously close to the inset step out on the balcony of the suite he was given.

The hotel room reeks -- or maybe just Dan does, everything is bleary and his head feels like a construction site and he knows how to manage his drinking better than this, at least normally, and lets out a pathetic whimper while snuggling further into mostly unsullied 180-count cotton sheets. He opens his eyes again after a second, watching the fog roll into the harbor -- the trophy from yesterday sits, an almost austere reminder, polishing and reflecting the grey light back at the floor to ceiling windows as something far closer to a true shine. Dan blinks, trying to remember how it felt crossing the line yesterday and finds nothing but a fuzzy, fragmented memory more sound and light than actual feeling, everything inside of him still wrapped in a softly ebullient haze.

Dan feels like shit, but can't stop a grin from crawling onto his face anyway.

-

He makes his flight, somehow. Well, OK "somehow" does have a name and it's Anna, and it's possible Dan is laying it on a bit thick when he calls her an angel at least six times between the hotel and Shanghai Pudong.

Max is on the aeroplane before him, and he smiles at Dan -- a small sliver of a thing, before turning back to stare out the window of the first class cabin. Dan hesitates in sitting, covers for it by fiddling a bit with his carry-on -- not like he didn't know they were booked on the same flight back to Monaco, and not like this should actually be awkward for any reason.

Dan rolls his eyes, mostly at himself, and plops himself down in the seat opposite Max. The younger man doesn't stop in his staring competition with the plane window, so Dan kicks at his legs. Max snorts, and after a second kicks him back in the shins with some force.

"Ow, you shit," Dan grouses.

"You get what you give," Max mumbles, but turns to look at Dan, something a lot closer to a smile on his face.

"Nice for nice, is that it? Massage your feet now for a reach-around mid-flight, or --"

"You're sincerely overestimating the quality of your foot massages," Max scoffs, blushing lightly even as he keeps a straightish face and Dan grins.

"Not what your mum was saying last night, mate --" Dan breaks off into giggles when Max throws his pillow at him.

"You're never getting this back, by the way," Dan continues, taking the offending pillow and stuffing it under his arse, wiggling back and forth on it to make a show of getting comfortable. "All mine now."

"You can keep it, honestly," Max disclaims, making a face.

Dan looks at him a minute, takes note of the softer set of the kid's eyebrows, the lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders have relaxed a bit. Even though Max looks to be wanting to returning to his window gazing, there's a tension that's vanished, and Dan'll take it as enough of a win.

"What?" Max asks, stuttering over the way Dan's fallen silent in his teasing.

"Just taking in your baby blues, Maxy," Dan winks, and watches his teammate snort and shift to better face the window for take-off.

-

 _So have you talked to him yet_ is the text message that's sitting in his inbox waiting for him when Dan lands. It's from an unknown number, but it's mostly perfunctory when Dan writes back:

_who is this???_

because the _Oh it's Lewis sorry do you not have this number? It's my back-up personal mobile_ is completely unsurprising. Dan almost doesn't answer, angling his body slightly away from where Max is waking up as they taxy to the gate.

 _have u maybe considered... talking to him... urself... ?_ Dan types, followed by a string of thinking emoji for emphasis. Honestly, he thought Lewis cornering him after the race was an impulse thing, but it's starting to not look like it after all.

"We're here?" Max asks, half-asleep and stretching in a way that looks dangerous.

Max always manages to fall asleep without extending the seats all the way out into a bed which is something Dan is simultaneously extremely impressed by and completely disgusted by -- it can't be good for Max's neck or back, and half the point of these obscenely expensive plane tickets is the fancy seats.

"Yeah," Dan says, distracted by trying to think of what to say to Lewis when he inevitably replies.

 _Dude he doesn't care what I have to say_ Dan snorts, because that's certainly true. _or much like me for that matter, what good would come of that_ which comes in just after the first, and Dan rubs at his face. He's too tired to deal with his right now.

 _p sure he doesn't care what I have to say about his racing either tbqh_ Dan thumbs together, before shift his phone to his pocket and slapping Max's thigh to jolt him awake from where he's started to doze again.

"Up you get," Dan says, tossing Max's carry on bag into his face with an ungraceful arc.

Max groans, but does as he's told. "How are you getting back to Monaco?"

"My car's in Nice, I drove down," Dan says. "Did you not?"

"No," Max admits with a grimace. "Uh, I flew out from Belgium, actually, I wanted to spend some time --"

"Are you still dating that Joyce chick then? Good job," Dan smirks. "Try not to fuck that up, you're significantly uglier than her."

"-- with my mum before the race, fuck off," Max finishes, but it's weak, he's bright red, and it's a clear lie.

Dan just stares at him and waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion, until Max groans and jostles him out into the aisle of the plane.

"We're not dating," Max hisses into his ear as Dan continues to flop his eyebrows around and walk backwards just to maintain eye contact while doing it. "We're not, stop it, Jesus."

"Whatever you say," Dan says, laughing and turning around to walk properly back into the airport. "Are you in need of a chauffeur then? Fair warning, I am full-service if you tip well enough."

"What, you'll follow me upstairs to feed me warm milk and a bed-time story?" Max replies, "Yes, please."

There's some relief evident in Max's voice even as he continues the joke. The worry, faint as it was, that Dan would somehow be enough of a dick not to give him a ride back into Monte Carlo when they're both going there anyway rubs Dan the wrong way. It makes him think of Lewis' line of texting.

They're walking towards baggage claim when Dan next has a moment to check his phone and make it look practiced and unconcerning. Lewis has replied again:

 _Maybe maybe not, but he does like you so talk to him_ Dan tries to pin down what about about Lewis persistence is actually most irritating to him, the implication that Max is somehow his responsibility, or the presumption -- the presumption that Dan ought to do something at all? The kid races like a bulldozer, sure; it's been bad over the last two races, sure. But Max doesn't need Dan intervening to get that sorted.

Dan watches his teammate wander over to the baggage carousel, the overhead fluorescents washing Max's face out and, despite their harsh quality, improbably making the man look younger. Dan suspects Max has been doing lots of things on his own for quite some time, at least in practice if not in name. Some irresponsible track tactics and two points on his superlicense are hardly a cry for help.

"You good to grab the bags if I go to collect the car from the park and bring it round curbside?" Dan asks, coming up behind Max, placing his hand on Max's shoulder.

Max nods, looking tired again already. It's a good thing it's already nine o'clock at night, the transition for both of them with the jetlag will be slightly easier. Dan pats him in acknowledgement once and heads off to get his car.

-

The drive into the principality is always a little unearthly, especially at night. Dan steers the car, Max sleeping like the dead -- or as quiet as -- beside him, over the ridge and the harbour spills into view like a glittering jewel.

There are moments where Dan's entire life seems like a waking-dream, and it's usually shutter-stop moments like this one; this weird disconnect welling up in his chest will pass, but just like the high of the last two days was all-consuming, so now is this misplaced melancholy.

"It's really beautiful," Max says, shifting in his seat suddenly. "I've been coming here for I don't know how long, but -- I've never just looked at it."

"It's worth doing," Dan says, shrugging slightly.

"Yeah," Max agrees, and goes back to pressing his face against the cool glass of the window.

Dan continues to drive even as the view is swallowed up into the dark by the next winding curve. He shifts up and opens up the throttle just to feel the car make noise around them both. There's something comforting in knowing that each bend brings them closer to home, something that's dissolving whatever gloom managed to creep its way into the car on the ridge earlier. Dan spares a glance in Max's direction, almost thinking to ask for confirmation that whatever mood was in here earlier was real, is being dispelled -- but the younger man's still turned fully away.

Dan focuses back on the road and pushes on.

-

"You can stay if you want," Max says while opening the door to his apartment.

He lives all the way up in Les Révoires, whereas Dan's place is down at one of the newer high-rises in Fontvielle. It's tricky getting down, even though they're not exactly on opposite sides of Monaco, and Dan is exhausted.

He watches as Max flicks on the lights, takes in the sparse but cooly stylish decor that Dan's willing to bet means the place was bought pre-furnished, and then thinks about the comfort of his own place, of his own bed. Max drags his luggage into the living room and then collapses into a stool by his breakfast bar. There's a pile of mail on the floor in front of the door that Max had simply stepped over, refusing to acknowledge its existence (at least until morning), and it makes Dan feel disproportionately fond of Max for a moment.

"Nah, thanks," Dan manages to say. "I should be getting back. We can do lunch in a day or two if you want, just text me yeah?"

"Yeah," Max says, smiling -- but it's off, somehow, and Dan's not entirely sure he understands why. "Good race, by the way. I don't think I'd said."

And that's. Dan nods his head, fishing for time to figure out how not to react. "Thanks," he manages to get out without too much coloring his voice.

"Goodnight," Max continues, after a second, and Dan understands it's a dismissal.

Dan doesn't fight it and leaves.


End file.
